


welcome to capitalism

by deadlybride



Series: logical choices under capitalism [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Consensual Kink, M/M, Prostitution, Slight D/s Elements, logical choices under capitalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Jared's worn down by the grind of what living in his world is like; he meets a rich man, and makes him an offer: to be his, in any way he wants, as long as Jared gets a roof above his head and food in his belly and doesn't have to worry about anything else.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki
Series: logical choices under capitalism [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912669
Comments: 51
Kudos: 129





	welcome to capitalism

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by:
> 
> [–]Sa_notaman_tha 60 points 2 hours ago  
> Honestly though yeah; If my options are wage slavery or wage slavery lemme work as the groundskeeper of some lord’s estate or some shit; where you get to eat three squares a day, sleep in a bed, and work in the fresh air
> 
> [–]Millenial–Pink 21 points 45 minutes ago  
> Yearning for a Feudal system in 2019.
> 
> [–]Raiden1312 5 points 13 minutes ago  
> I’d rather be working feudally than futilely.

Jared’s sore but it’s that good kind of sore, where he’s been working hard all day and his muscles feel like they’ve done their job. The grounds are looking good—and it’s not like it’s twenty acres, or anything, but the pool’s clean and the hedges are neat and the roses he’s coaxing into bloom on the east terrace by the windows are nearly into bud, and when he brushes his thumb over the leaves it feels—good. Right, like he’s done a good thing. Contributed, in some little way, even if his life is… small, now. He touches his finger to a thorn, brief threat of pain, but doesn’t let it pierce him, and then he lets the bush go and packs away his tools before he heads for the house.

It’s a big house, for Marin County. Big house, and land enough around it to feel like it has space, air to breathe. Mature trees screening the neighbors’ view and a privacy fence all around ensure it, so that Jared feels like he’s in a separate country from what’s out there. What matters to him is—this house. This land. The plants and the plumbing and the creak in the door to the second-floor guest room, which he’s trying to decide how best to mend. It’s simple and honest and all he has to worry about, because that’s the deal he made, with Mr. Ackles, and Mr. Ackles said he’d worry about everything else.

When he gets into the kitchen, Malai has been and gone. The fridge is full of neatly labeled meals: breakfast lunch dinner for the next three days labeled with a neat J.A., and a separate stack of pyrex with her cutesy puppy sticker, meant just for him. Jared wishes he hadn’t been so busy with the roses. He’s trying to pick up a few words of Thai, and her English is barely okay, but it’s nice to talk to someone, once in a while. Other than the housekeeper who swings by once a week, there’s really no one else. And, if Jared’s honest, it’s easier to pseudo-communicate with Malai than it is to talk to Esperanza, or Rick the driver, because at least with the language barrier she doesn’t really ask questions—she assumes he’s a normal employee, like all the rest of them, and he’s never wanted to disabuse her of the notion. It’s not like—he’s not _ashamed_ , but he knows what the others think. There’s no need to sour one of the few nice relationships he’s got left, especially when—beside everything else—he’s… about as happy as he ever expected to be.

"Hey." Brief touch to his side. He looks up from his noodles but without much expectation. Way past lunch and Mr. Ackles is after espresso, not food or conversation, because he’s looking at his tablet and has an earpiece humming information to him and even if he’s barefoot and unshaven and beautiful he’s being a CMO, right now, and not anything that Jared can actually touch. Jared practices getting a delicate bean sprout between his chopsticks while Mr. Ackles frowns at the moka pot and says, also frowning, "The numbers don’t add up for that, Laura. You need data, not intuition."

Not cruel. He never is. Jared still thinks Laura had better come up with some numbers, soon. Mr. Ackles touches his bluetooth and sighs, but he keeps staring at the moka while it comes to a boil and doesn’t seem to need Jared’s input, so Jared finishes up his noodles and then washes up, in the big sink, and puts his pyrex away in its cupboard, and then wipes down the kitchen. It’s his job, kind of. Mr. Ackles didn’t give him real clear instructions, but he knows how to keep a house—even if it’s one this fancy.

The pot starts to burble while Jared’s wringing out his rag. Mr. Ackles pours his cup, and Jared brings him the oat milk without needing to be asked. A little smile, then, even if it’s distracted, and Jared gets that tiny warm thrill in his chest—that dumb thing, always needing that little bit of want. He watches Mr. Ackles pour in his dash of fake milk and waits to be handed the container, and instead watches Mr. Ackles read and dismiss five emails on his tablet, his mouth thin. "Why does everyone have so many shitty ideas, Jared?" he says.

"Don’t know, sir," Jared says, voice rough. He hasn’t really talked yet, today. He clears his throat and Mr. Ackles actually looks at him. "A lot of people are dumb."

An actual snort. He’s handed the carton of milk. "Truer words," Mr. Ackles says, and when Jared turns back from closing the fridge Mr. Ackles touches his wrist, his thumb glancing against the veins there where Jared’s barely not the same all-over shade of burnished tan. "Later, okay? I have some stuff to take care of, but I want to see you."

"Sure," says Jared. Mr. Ackles smiles at him, really looking, before his eyes go distant as he takes his coffee out of the room along with another call. Like it’s even something worth asking. Like Jared would ever say no.

It was just—hard. Before. Hard, and it always just seemed to get harder. Student debt that had somehow climbed into six figures, and an internship that was supposed to turn into paid work that disappeared between his fingers, and a relationship with a girl who ended up wanting different things, and a relationship with a boy who ended up wanting nice couches and better suits more than he wanted Jared’s jokes and his massage skills which were, if he said so himself, pretty amazing. Engineering jobs that he kept almost getting; an actual position, finally, trapped in an office he hated with a boss who was worse, and the life that was supposed to work out becoming something that felt like it suffocated more than it did anything else. Every day, coming in, and his clothes that he’d had to buy on a stretched-thin credit limit, and his small-talk that he could barely keep up because he commuted from Oakland and had twelve hour days and he never had the chance to take in all these cultural things that all his coworkers just seemed to know, like there’d been some pamphlet handed out on a day he’d been out sick, and no one would give him the notes on what he’d missed. It was supposed to be okay. College and a good degree, and what was supposed to be a good job, afterward. It was supposed to be his ticket to easy. Everyone said that was how it was meant to go.

A guy he’d slept with, who had an actual house, and Jared didn’t want to leave—didn’t want to go back to his shitty two bedroom with three roommates, didn’t want to wake up for work the next day, the same fucking spreadsheets and the yearly review meeting to see what his progress had been for the year—like he’d progressed, this year, in anything but misery—a guy he’d slept with, who brushed his hair away from his face and smiled at him and said, _honey, you could do this for a living_ , and he’d laughed but he’d also thought—christ, wouldn’t it be better? Better than this?

A few parties. A venn diagram, of rich guys who liked certain things. Tall boys with good arms and big hands, they never went out of style, and Jared met Pierce and then Sergey and then Sundar and then Dustin and then, at a rooftop garden party when he hadn’t had much sleep and there was a progress report for work about a mile long that he knew was due the next morning that he hadn’t even come close to starting, let alone finishing, he was drinking pale beer at a shining bar, and there’d been a brief touch to his side, and a man who was just about the prettiest thing he’d ever seen said, _Hey,_ with no expectation, and Jared had thought, what if. Wouldn’t it be better?

He goes up to the third floor and takes a shower, letting the jets pound him all over, and then a nap in his TV room, with a TNG marathon playing to lull him to sleep. When he wakes up it’s a little dim in the west, and he wipes his face, and dresses in his usual pajamas of the silky-soft pants Mr. Ackles likes and a stretchy wife-beater—an A-shirt, Mr. Ackles insists they’re called—that he prefers, and then he goes downstairs and heats up dinner for both of them. Malai left him meatloaf because she loves him, and vegetables because she’s a sadist, and Jared eats both from the microwave while he’s more careful about plating up Mr. Ackles’s dinner of gaeng gai, lading it as artistically as he can over a bed of jasmine rice, garnishing with the thai basil and thinking, abruptly, this is a long, long way from microwave ramen on that couch we found in the alley. A lightyear, basically, between that life and this one. He doesn’t know how he’d ever go back.

Mr. Ackles is still working, of course. The office on the second floor glows through glass wall, and his face is lit-up blue in the computer light when Jared pushes through the door, and he’s frowning still even when he looks up, even when he sort-of smiles. "That time already?" he says. A sigh, like it’s hard.

"Like clockwork," Jared says, mild, and gets a head-shake and an eyeroll, a little softening of the tense, pretty mouth. He sets down the dinner tray and presses the sleep button on the PC with a pointed raise of his eyebrows, and Mr. Ackles sighs again but he’s softer still, amused, like he gets when Jared pretends he has an actual, real say, here.

"Yes, darling," Mr. Ackles says, sarcastic but not harsh, and Jared pours him a drink from the bar under the big picture window while he gets a more natural, easy, "What did you do today, anyway? I’ve been stuck up here with this deal, feel like I never saw sunlight," which means it’s Jared’s cue to come and sit and be good, easy, and say, "Well, I put in the new rosebush by the south windows," and be what’s needed, now, like he is all the rest of the time.

Thing is: Jensen Ackles is rich, and smart, and ungodly hot. Queer, but that’s no obstacle, these days. What he is, Jared realized, was insanely busy, and ambitious, and absorbed in his work, and had no time for the effort of finding a partner, of keeping them placated and happy, frittering away valuable hours on coaxing someone onto dates, making them feel like the center of the world. The work came first. That first time after that first party he woke up to Jensen working on his laptop, still naked in the bed they shared, and he said, distracted, _sorry, I’d walk you out, but—_ and seemed almost to forget Jared was in the room. Not exactly flattering, but he had a line between his eyebrows that Jared recognized, and it was four in the morning, and Jared got up and made him a cup of coffee and when Jensen took it—Jensen only, then, just a beautiful mouth and a surprisingly rich laugh and a taste in classic rock that Jared had made fun of a little at the party, before Jensen kissed him—he’d said _wow, you need to take some barista lessons_ , but he’d been surprised, and grateful, and looked at Jared like he was something new, and Jared had thought—what if.

Mr. Ackles talks about the acquisition, a little. Jared hasn’t had to think about this kind of thing in almost a year and doesn’t miss it, but he can follow the details. He watches Mr. Ackles eat, mostly. The tidy bites, the way he brushes his mouth with the napkin, just so. They’re both from Texas originally, both down-home boys, but somehow while Jared was struggling to make sense of it all Jensen just—fit, locking into this place like he’d been born to it. He sips at his drink and Jared watches him savor it, watches him swallow it, and it’s all just—easy. He knows how to do this. To be useful, because he can watch and see what someone might need.

There’s a cushion, tucked under the desk. Jared hooks it out and sinks down onto it, comfortable on his hip while Mr. Ackles complains about the lawyer on the other side who keeps bringing up loopholes. He slides one hand around Mr. Ackles’s calf and says, "Guy sounds like he could stand to pull the stick out of his ass," and Mr. Ackles laughs and says, "Yeah, probably, although—shit, I guess I could too, huh?" He drags his fingers through Jared’s hair, soft and easy. "Bitching up a storm, when you’re trying to get me to relax."

Jared smiles. "I mean," he says, drawing it out, and Mr. Ackles huffs. "I wasn’t going to say it, but if the bitchy shoe fits—"

"Oh, that’s how it’s gonna go?" Mr. Ackles tugs on a little bundle of hair behind his ear, so soft it doesn’t come close to hurting. That’s not really what he likes. Jared’s not sure he’d mind, if it were so.

Jared shrugs. "Up to you," he says, and Mr. Ackles looks at him in that way—not surprised or even hot for it, but that kind of—certain way, the way he had when Jared had come back to the house and made his serious offer, and Mr. Ackles hadn’t believed him—had still been Jensen—and it wasn’t until the third time, Jared naked and honest and almost ready to beg, when Mr. Ackles said, _get on your knees then_ and Jared had and Mr. Ackles had _seen_ him and this roll of intense relief had poured right into Jared’s bones, and Mr. Ackles’s face had been—just like this. Like he understood he didn’t have to ask.

"Want me to fuck you?" Jared says. He doesn’t have to ask but sometimes he likes Jared to offer. He pulls Mr. Ackles closer, his desk chair rolling smooth, and presses his cheek against the inside of the buttery denim, those jeans that cost more than Jared’s share of the rent used to. Fingers tighten in his hair and he speaks against the flex of thigh, warm inside. "You want to fuck me? Or we could do both. Could go to your room, take our time."

"That’d be perfect," Mr. Ackles says, but a little wistful, and Jared looks up to find himself on the receiving end of an almost regretful look. "But I really do have to finish this tonight. Can’t relax too much." He combs his fingers through Jared’s hair, rubbing the back of his ear, and his mouth tilts, rueful. "I’ll want you available in the morning after the stockholders meeting, but for now—suck my dick, and then stick around for a while while I finish some stuff up."

Jared’s mouth floods. No need to respond, beyond a nod. He helps Mr. Ackles slide his jeans and that ridiculous swedish underwear he insists they both wear down and off, so he’s half-naked in his ultra-ergonomic chair. Pale, way too pale, because he never takes a break, but it means there’s a barely-visible blue vein in his thigh for Jared to lip against before he catches under both knees and spreads him wide, open and ready for Jared to go to work. He gets a sigh, and Mr. Ackles—Jensen, like this, impossible for Jared’s brain to divorce like this—folds his arms lazily over the top of the chair. Ready to be relaxed, because that’s Jared’s job—to take his mind off things, for a while, to make life easier.

He likes Jared to start with his balls, and so of course that’s what Jared does: he gathers them careful in his mouth and sucks, tonguing gentle at each in turn, and feels Jensen’s dick lengthen slowly against his cheek while he does it, hears Jensen’s satisfied deep breath as it goes. When he’s almost-impatient, hips shifting, Jared lifts off and gives a smile, knowing his lips are already red, wet with all the spit he’s been giving up. Jensen huffs a little laugh, smiling down at him. "Little shit," he says.

Jared lifts up and kisses him, shallow but wet, teeth dragging the way Jensen likes it. "You love it," he says, and Jensen rolls his eyes, and unfolds his arm to catch Jared by the shoulder and push him down. Jared goes easy, opening up for Jensen’s dick for the—who knows how many times it’s been. Perfect, solid mouthful, and Jensen moans easy up above. Not desperate, just—content, because he knows Jared will do his job, because Jared always does. Jared sucks, pulsing gentle pulls as he bobs up and down, and he settles in to make it good—not a slow, suck-his-brains out blow, but long enough that it’ll actually do something, more than just a quick fuck in the butler’s pantry to escape a party, or a handjob in the shower when he’s got a flight to catch and Jared’s going to be alone for a week with nothing but the house for company.

Jensen flexes into his throat, sighing, and Jared slides his hands under his bare ass, encouraging it. Jensen, Jensen. Another life, another world—one where Jared had been able to hack it—one where maybe they would’ve met, at that party on that rooftop, and instead of being himself he’d been some up-and-comer, some worth-talking-to software genius, someone beyond his hands and his height and his dick and the smile Jensen still touched at night, the dimples he said he loved—maybe that place, that place where Jared was more than this, would be better. Maybe. But as it stands, he has his hands, and his dick, and his mouth, and he’s going to make Jensen feel so goddamn good—so good that when it’s over Jared’s going to keep Jensen in his mouth until he goes soft, and Jensen will pet Jared’s head like he’s treasured and then keep working, while Jared sits and holds him warm and rests easy, on his cushion at Jensen’s feet, and his mind will go happily blank—no stress, no worries beyond which fertilizer to order for the roses, and maybe new hinges for that door—and later when Jensen’s hardened up thick in his throat and he says, _bedtime, sweetheart_ , Jared will let him go and look up into his face and know, know, if Jensen wants to be fucked raw or if he wants Jared to carry him in sweet like a honeymoon or if he just wants Jared to wait, like he said, a body content to let Jensen be the will that sways it. It’ll be okay, whatever way. Jared knows that he’s got it better, here, than just about anywhere else he’s ever been, and it’s a weird kind of comfort that as he presses his tongue up against the thick vein in Jensen’s shaft and lets him rock fat and deep into the soft pit of his throat where he’s long-since been broken easy—Mr. Ackles knows this is where he’s best, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/626318462881513473/welcome-to-capitalism)
> 
> Would appreciate any thoughts if you have them. Maybe worth expanding?


End file.
